The Great Return
by Mireille Bouquet Fan
Summary: Even after the departure from the Manor, Noir are still under threat. With Kirika still critically wounded, danger closing in on all sides, and millions of lives in the balance, Mireille's only hope for survival may be a former ally she thought long dead. Rating will change to M for violence and language.
1. Prologue: The Soldiers

This story is set in 2011, immediately after the end of episode 26 of _Noir,_ in what would be a post-_Die Another Day_ Brosnan Bond 'era'. I recommend reading my previous Bond/Noir crossover, _From Corsica With Love,_ as this story, although hopefully understandable and enjoyable in its own right, is intended as a sequel.

* * *

_Noir_ is owned by Ryoe Tsukimura, Bee Train Entertainment and Victor Entertainment. The English language version, originally produced by A.D. Vision, is owned by FUNimation Entertainment.

James Bond and associated characters are owned by Danjaq, L.L.C. and Ian Fleming Publications, based on characters created by Ian Fleming. Rights to the James Bond film series are owned by Danjaq, L.L.C. and United Artists Corporation. Rights to James Bond print media are owned by Ian Fleming publications.

All other trademarks and copyrights are the intellectual property of their respective owners.

* * *

The Great Return

A James Bond and _Noir_ story

* * *

Prologue: The Soldiers

* * *

It was a secluded spot in a mountain range on a northern continent of a small, rocky planet, the third planet from a small star. It was on the northeast side of a border separating two nations populated by the local sapient inhabitants. The site had ancient, artificial structures occupying it, many of which now lay in ruin.

Although a tiny community was sited nearby, its inhabitants were now gone, and the spot itself was a significant distance from the nearest settlement of significant size, being surrounded, as it was, by mountains. Being in an area seldom travelled by the sapient inhabitants, it was far from what some such inhabitants might call 'the beaten track'. Indeed, its isolation was what its former inhabitants desired.

The planet's rotation slowly took this isolated region in the mountains away from the light of the star, and this part of the planet fell into temporary darkness. However, the planet's inhabitants had long ago devised ways to compensate for the darkness with artificial lighting, and so, the darkness of the planet was punctuated by spots of yellow and white – indicators of habitation.

The sapient inhabitants lived in communities, some small, some large, many lit by the artificial lighting that showed as bright spots against the darkness when the planet rotated away from the light of the star, a testament to the ingenuity and imaginativeness of the species.

This spot, however, had very little of the artificial lighting that other residences had, and it, too, was almost entirely enveloped by darkness.

Night descended on the Pyrenees.

* * *

It was the domain of a Roman provincial governor, sited in the mountains as an isolated outpost of the Roman Empire at its peak. Pyrene Numicium had housed a cohort of soldiers, whose duty was to stand guard over some of the mountain passes into Hispania. It was also to be a place of refuge, in the event that citizens living nearby were forced to flee.

This proved to be the case, as the Vandals, those people the Romans had derided as barbarians, swept south through Gaul in the fourth century. Their influence and power waning, citizens of the Empire who could not flee east, back to Rome, went up into the mountains and to Pyrene Numicium, that single remaining bastion of the Empire in these regions. They would be safe for the moment, as plans were made to evacuate the outpost's inhabitants – all of them – back to a province still securely held by Rome.

The evacuation took place as the Roman Empire slid into decline. Everything of value had been taken with the fleeing Romans, and the outpost itself had been left abandoned, with no Romans returning to reclaim it, even with military victories by successive Roman emperors and the reclamation of much of Gaul.

Since the evacuation, Pyrene Numicium had been found neither by the invading tribes nor by any others living in Gaul; in that, it had served its purpose as a secret refuge. The Empire never reclaimed it, and the Visigoths later living in Hispania never found it, and so, the massive, sprawling estate fell into decay over the intervening centuries, columns crumbling and falling, roofs caving in – all victim to a combination of neglect and attack by the elements.

* * *

Several hundred years after the evacuation, with the Roman Empire in Gaul long gone, and the Capetian dynasty beginning to exert its influence over France, another league of individuals seeking refuge from their enemies chanced across Pyrene Numicium. This group had survived a recent bloodbath, the result of an attempted coup and the orgy of violence that had followed.

They had seen firsthand what people were capable of, and had resolved to do what they could to ensure such horror would never again be visited on another man, woman, or child; but first, they needed to find a place to hide. The outpost was a chance find, really, but one they had been glad to make; this would be their new sanctuary.

It was several hundred kilometres from the nearest town. Flanked by mountains, the path, although easy to negotiate on foot or horse or cart, was a winding one, slowing a pursuer's progress. The Roman-era buildings, while crumbling and falling into disrepair, would provide shelter.

Not knowing the name of the estate, or indeed anything else about it except that its original builders and occupants were Roman, the newcomers chose to name it the Manor.

Their numbers slowly grew as like-minded, trustworthy individuals rallied at the Manor, and they set about building for themselves a large complex not unlike a monastery – halls, bedrooms, a chapel. In addition, they slowly armed themselves, eventually building a significant arsenal.

They established a vineyard on the Manor's grounds – the grapes provided food and wine, which were taken on horse-drawn carts and sold at markets as a source of income. A small village established in a nearby valley provided crops, cattle, and sheep – food. It also served as something of a gateway or guardhouse for the Manor.

It was from here that they spread forth, hoping to take action by integrating into society. Some of them eventually rose to positions of authority, and once there, they were able to exert influence, to make changes for the better. In this, they were successful.

They were also militarily successful, taking direct, public action against the corrupt, the cruel, the oppressors, and as a result, they and their actions came to be accepted and loved by the commoners. However, they had no name, no coat of arms, no banner or war flag, so they were not easily identified; they were simply known as 'them' or to the more imaginative and verbose, 'the saviours' or 'the deliverers'.

Later on, they would come to be known as the Soldiers. It was a name they did not object to, and one they quickly adopted, for they fought to defend those who could not defend themselves – they were fighting against corruption and injustice.

Those who would eventually come to be known as the Soldiers had long since won favour with the commoners, but it was not long before they found themselves with enemies. Soon, their enemies were many – too many for the Soldiers to confront directly. Had their enemies rallied together, the Soldiers would have been annihilated – fortunately, few of their enemies decided to form partnerships or alliances. Even so, the Soldiers found themselves under attack on multiple fronts.

As a result, the Soldiers went into retreat, shying away from the public eye. Scattered among the towns and villages were secret refuges and centres for Soldiers and their allies, bases from where they planned and watched.

* * *

When the Soldiers decided to go underground, retreating into the shadows, they left as their agents two women who would observe, and if necessary fight on their behalf, and therefore on behalf of those downtrodden they were sworn to protect. The name given to this pair was the Black Ones, or simply the Black, for they were instruments of darkness that would cut away at those who threatened the innocent. Already something of a military facility, the Manor was then partially dedicated to the training of those who were selected, that they might be worthy of carrying the mantle of the Black.

The Soldiers' high priest selected the daughters of Soldiers and blessed them soon after birth. At a young age, they took up residence in the Manor, if they were not already living there, and they were taught how to fight and kill and survive. The two women who eventually emerged from the Manor bearing the name Black were skilled combatants, among the most courageous of warriors, and through them, the Soldiers continued to wage their war, but now, it was a secret war, fought in the shadows, and fought through two women.

In spite of their secrecy, the Soldiers knew that their history needed to be formally recorded; they had written histories, writings and musings, but they were scattered, disorganised. A monastery maintained by the Soldiers' priesthood at Langonel became the place where their writings were collated, creating what would be retrospectively known as the Langonel Manuscript.

* * *

1278 AD

The young monk dipped his quill in the inkwell once again, and, taking a breath, continued writing on the parchment. The hour was late, and he knew that it would soon be time to retire, but he could not stop now. He had been writing most of the day, but only now was his energy beginning to wane. It was an honour, this task, one which he attacked with as much energy and enthusiasm as he could muster.

While known to many, the monastery at Langonel served a dual purpose: in addition to its primary purpose as a place of meditation and prayer, it was a secret refuge for the Soldiers, used as a meeting place on the way to the Manor, and a rallying point for Soldiers in the area. This was a fact hidden from all but a few of the monks who lived here.

He was one of them.

He had been tasked with compiling the scattered written history of the people who were only known as the Soldiers, a three hundred-year-old organisation. He had heard of the Soldiers as a boy, of their deeds in removing corrupt, cruel officials, and held them in high regard his whole life. However, the Soldiers had long since vanished from public view, and so, finding them at this monastery was a shock, but a pleasant one.

He eventually became known and trusted to them, so much so that when it was decided to formally record their history, the Soldiers chose him to be the scrivener – the scribe. It was an assignment he accepted with great honour and took most seriously. As befitting such an undertaking, he wrote in Latin, the language of a scholar.

The history was spread out on the table before him, on various sheets of parchment, written with different inks by different hands holding different quills. Some of it was written in Latin, but most was in the vulgar language – French.

He took few liberties in what he wrote – his duty was to transcribe what had been placed before him. The Soldiers had long since disappeared from public view, leaving only two agents – the women who served the darkness, the Black Ones.

A Soldier had compiled a series of verses telling of the Soldiers and their exploits, their origins and their rise, and the decades-old tradition of the Black Ones.

Apparently, a former Soldier turned hermit living in a monastery in the south of France had once entertained a visitor to the monastery seeking information about the Soldiers and the Black Ones. What the hermit told the traveller was recalled as a poem, his words turned into a poetic prose and interspersed between verses about the Soldiers and the Black Ones.

Few would know of this poem's existence. Fewer still would know what it meant and what it referred to.

* * *

_The Black Ones, the name of a destiny of the ages._

_Two maidens who ruled the world of death._

_Their black hands safeguarded the peace of the newborn children._

_Man within the man, love within the love, sin within the sin._

_The hermit proclaimed unto the sinner, 'the soldiers are with the truth.'_

* * *

It would not be long before the very name of Noir – the local word for Black – came to be feared. Private as they were, the Soldiers soon adopted the image of two women bearing swords as their icon. The icon was disseminated in secret, but even though the image was discovered on several occasions over the next six hundred years, no-one outside the Soldiers knew what it meant.

However, the Soldiers had hidden themselves well, and they slowly faded into obscurity. After only two hundred years, only the name of Noir – and the fear and respect that came with that name – was left.

Meanwhile, the Soldiers themselves changed. Having integrated themselves into society, they no longer sought to change the status quo, as per their original mandate. Instead, those of the Soldiers in positions of authority used their power to their personal advantage, and as a result, the Soldiers, although still secret, became one of the most influential groups in the world. The Soldiers in positions of power had long since been acting of their own accord, not on behalf of the Soldiers; while some such authority figures still believed in the Soldiers' ideals, many saw their positions as being opportunities for personal gain.

The black ones – Noir – still existed to serve the Soldiers, but eventually the practice of training and employing two women as Noir would cease; the Soldiers had long since gained the ability to subtly effect change in other ways, leaving Noir redundant. The name Noir, however, would live on; the reputation of Noir ensured that over time, many killers took on this name for themselves.

The impracticality of the Manor's remote location meant that the Soldiers had long since abandoned it as a base of operations, leaving only a small custodial presence. The wine from the vineyard continued to act as a source of income, but even this eventually fell into disrepair, as it was no longer needed. Eventually, the Soldiers left it altogether, and the Manor would remain untouched and forgotten by humans, save for a chosen few who kept its location a secret. The village, however, remained, populated by Soldiers and their descendants, and the Manor itself remained sacred ground, off-limits to all but the most high-ranking Soldiers.

Among the Soldiers were a small number who maintained the old ways, the old beliefs; they had not changed their ways as the others had. They wished for the Soldiers to return to their roots – an agency sworn to protect, not one that was self-serving. In spite of their number, some of them, particularly those among the priesthood, held some authority and respect as keepers of the old ways, of the old traditions, but their numbers were few, and so, all they could do was wait, and hope for the eventual return of the old ways. Over time, this 'return' to the Soldiers' original purpose was reinterpreted from a change in mentality and direction to an actual event in the future, one that would come to be known by the Council and the priesthood as the Great Return – the day when the wishes of the original Soldiers would at last be fulfilled.

* * *

The writings of the monk at Langonel were not forgotten. He had written a second copy in the vernacular Old French – the predecessor of modern French – and stored it with the Latin copy. They were in turn copied by other scriveners, held in secret collections maintained by Soldiers.

With the advent of Gutenberg's printing press, copies of both versions were quickly made and distributed amongst the Soldiers. Several copies found their way out of archives maintained by the Soldiers, to be held in libraries and universities across Europe; however, the writings were seen as fiction, their true meaning and significance unknown.

* * *

In the late twentieth century, the high priest of the Soldiers, who had studied the history of his organisation, made an irrevocable decision, a decision that would change the Soldiers forever. He desired a return to the ways of the Soldiers of old, the ones who had fought for the oppressed, but he knew that as they were, the Soldiers were unfit to carry out their original duty. He decided that now was the time to resurrect and to reclaim the name of Noir for the Soldiers.

The priesthood had lost much of its power, influence, and prestige, so progress was slow; even so, what little remained of the priesthood immediately sprang into action. As had been the ancient custom, he blessed several of the daughters of prominent Soldiers. He reopened the long-abandoned Manor, located in what was now known as the Pyrenees, on the French side of the border with Spain, and dedicated it to the training of Noir. Finally, he left instructions to his deputies that the girls were to receive training in the manner of the old Noir.

Within a year of the ceremonial blessing of the last child, the high priest died unexpectedly. Upon his death, the majority of the Soldiers in this faction were unsure of the path to take, and were about to abandon the cause, but the high priest's task had been readily taken up by a zealous young priestess – the one who had, indeed, inspired and urged the high priest to begin the process of resurrecting Noir.

As the high priest's most trusted and loyal deputy, her authority went unchallenged when she rallied the Soldiers' priesthood around herself, to maintain their focus, their determination, and their morale; as part of this process, she enlarged the Soldiers' priesthood, recruiting many more priests and priestesses to swell their ranks. Although she lacked charisma and flair, she made up for this deficiency with passion; her determination and focus ensured that she had the support and loyalty of many of the Soldiers in and outside of the priesthood, and the attention of many more.

She became caretaker of the Manor, taking up residence there, even going so far as to restore the vineyard. Here, she lived an essentially ascetic existence. Even isolated as she was, she still commanded loyalty among many Soldiers – enough that even the Council, with the resources it could bring to bear, had to tread lightly.

She had seen firsthand the horrors that humans were capable of inflicting upon one another, and she was determined to see that none should have to suffer such injustice. However, she knew they would need attendants – hands – in order to do this work. Thus, she had petitioned the high priest to embark on this path. Noir, she knew, would be the means by which they could accomplish this end, and she resolved to herself that she would see this task through.

Her name was Altena.

* * *

2011 AD

Wounded and bloody, they had left in their wake a score of bodies and spent shells. For them, the killing was over... for now.

Mireille Bouquet grunted as they approached the SUV. "Hang on," she urged Kirika Yuumura. "Almost there."

Kirika gasped. "I know."

Inwardly, Mireille frowned to herself. She heard that Kirika's breathing was laboured, and she could feel and hear that Kirika was starting to drag her feet. She seemed to be getting heavier by the minute, too – she herself was getting tired. They had to leave. Now.

Mireille finally stopped beside the SUV. She reached out and opened the front passenger door. The light set into the ceiling glowed invitingly.

With her help, Kirika manoeuvred into the empty seat. She coughed once as she lay back against the backrest.

Mireille lowered the seat back and pulled a first aid kit out from the footwell of the passenger seat, near Kirika's feet. Opening the kit, she looked over at the blood staining the gold cloth of Kirika's ceremonial dress. "Hang on. I'll get a bandage for that. I'll need you to press it down a bit while I secure it, ok?"

Kirika nodded. "Right."

She peered at the wound under the interior light from the SUV. She had previously looked at it after pulling Kirika out of the underground well, finding that Kirika had been lucky; the bullet hadn't penetrated very deeply, and had in fact been dislodged when Kirika rammed Altena.

Mireille had torn the bullet hole in the dress a bit wider when examining Kirika the first time; now, she managed to squeeze a gauze pad into the hole, which she applied over the wound. Kirika pressed on it while Mireille found a length of bandage, which she then wound around Kirika's waist, tying it over the gauze pad.

Kirika gasped in pain as the knot was tightened.

"Sorry," Mireille apologised.

Kirika managed a faint smile. "It's ok, Mireille."

"Right." Mireille nodded.

Picking up a bottle of water, she rinsed her hands and applied hand cleanser before bandaging her own arm. She then replaced the water bottle and first aid kit in the footwell, pulled the seatbelt over Kirika, and closed the door.

Mireille looked over at the Manor one last time. She was only too glad to leave, and she hoped to never see it again. She walked over to the driver's side, got in, started the motor, and drove off.

* * *

From behind a nearby bush, a pair of eyes watched silently. The watcher continued to observe as the SUV carrying the inheritors of the title of Noir left the grounds of the Manor, then turned and walked away into the night.


	2. On the Job

Chapter 2

On the Job

* * *

"Excuse me, sir."

James Bond paused at the sound of the deep voice, and turned on the stool at the bar to face the speaker.

Standing over him, about two feet away, were two men in suits. One was white, lean, with a small scar on his left cheek. The other was black, with a hint of muscular bulk under his suit. Both had the look of hired thugs or goons, and both wore sour expressions. He could see small bulges at their armpits, under their jackets.

* * *

Bond had spent the last two days trailing Karl Rossburg, a German national with links to drug and arms dealers in the former Eastern Bloc, as part of a NATO counter-proliferation operation. Starting as a drug courier, Rossburg had recently transitioned to smuggling weapons instead of opium. His clients had always been the shady sort, but now, he was serving as an arms supplier to various terrorist organisations and antigovernment extremists.

Bond's objective had been to plant a small tracker/listening device on him, so that NATO intelligence agencies could follow him to what was believed to be a large shipment of Soviet-era weapons headed for north Africa. Rossburg had already been shadowed by German and Polish intelligence agencies for a while – in fact, a German BfV agent had already planted a GPS tracker on his Maybach during a stop for fuel in Hamburg – but planting a tracker on his person was also important; he was expected to go to the handover for the weapons on the outskirts of Warsaw right after this stop, and both the ABW and the GROM unit moving in to arrest everyone wanted to hear what was going on as part of the operation.

One of Rossburg's favourite haunts was a large casino in Warsaw – one of several that had been established following the collapse of the Soviet Union. Apparently, he was partial to the odd game of poker or blackjack. To plant the tracker, Bond was to make contact with Rossburg inside – his own penchant for card games was well-known to the upper echelons of the SIS, making him the 'natural' choice.

It wasn't easy, finding a way to get so close to him without making his intentions obvious or arousing suspicion, but Bond managed to slip a tracker into the pocket of Rossburg's dinner jacket after a game of poker. Just for good measure, Bond managed to deprive him of €50,000 in the course of said game. Rossburg had been less than pleased; Bond had briefly wondered whether it was the loss of face, or perhaps he had put an end to a winning streak. Either way, who wouldn't be pissed off at the prospect of losing such a large sum of money?

* * *

Rossburg had a small retinue with him – three bodyguards. He had wondered if this would happen – Rossburg using his thugs to intimidate or beat him into giving the man his money back. The man hadn't exactly wasted time, either – Bond hadn't even cashed in his winnings yet.

"Can I help you?" Bond asked politely.

"You'll have to come with us, sir," the white man said with a faint German accent.

"What for?" Bond asked, feigning ignorance as he slid himself carefully from the stool. Upon standing, he noted each of them was maybe an inch taller than him.

"Let's not have a scene, sir," the black man replied. "We need you to come with us right now."

Bond took a step forward, and paused. He briefly looked around. The casino was far from full, and there were only half a dozen or so patrons at the bar. Most of the rest seemed focused on the gaming tables.

A few metres away, leaning against a wall, Rossburg glowered at him, with a man who was probably a third thug standing next to him.

He turned his attention back to the two men standing in front of him. The black man was in the process of drawing a pistol from under his jacket.

He gestured to the bar. "Something to drink?"

"I don't think – "

The white thug didn't finish his sentence. Bond flicked his left arm out, his fingers clamping on the pistol and wrenching it from the black thug's hand as he was levelling it at him from his hip. At the same time, he latched on to the black man's collar with his right hand and pulled him towards himself, bringing his right knee up into the man's gut as he did so.

The black man gasped with breathless shock. Still holding the man by the collar, Bond deftly stepped to the left and yanked back with his right arm, slamming him against the bar. His forehead connected with the top of the bar, and he fell to the floor, dazed.

Before the black man's head hit the bar, Bond swung out with the pistol, the butt striking the white thug against his left temple. He staggered back, tripped, and fell to the carpeted floor, his head bouncing against a bar stool on the way down.

Rossburg's third bodyguard, another wiry-looking white man, roared as he ran up to him, drawing the attention of several casino patrons. His right fist was raised, ready for a strike.

Bond swung his right arm up and out, blocking the punch and sending the man's arm crossed over his chest. He stepped to the left and tripped the man, turning his own momentum against him. He lost his balance and fell, his head striking the bar as he, too, fell to the floor.

"Uhh... sir..."

Bond turned. The bartender, a pale-faced young man, was just standing there behind the bar, holding a martini glass in one slightly shaking hand. He was staring dumbfounded at him, as were all the patrons at the bar and several casino-goers nearby. He heard several murmurs and gasps of shock.

"Ah, thank you." Bond stepped back to the bar and calmly set the pistol, a Browning Hi-Power, down on the bar. He then took the drink – a vodka martini, naturally – with a curt nod and turned around.

Several metres away, Karl Rossburg just stared at him, wide-eyed, his mouth open in shock.

Leaning slightly against the bar, Bond smiled, and raised the martini glass as if in a toast.


	3. State of Play

Chapter 3

State of Play

* * *

_The evening was filled with the sounds of at least a dozen car alarms, set off by the shock of the explosions. The nearby cars' flaring and fading lights provided a source of intermittent illumination for the horrific tableau. She barely registered the screeching cars at the roundabout behind her, or the car horns sounding as drivers suddenly braked or tried to pull away._

_Drawing herself upright, Mireille slowly walked around from behind the Aston Martin. She hesitantly walked towards the wreckage, staring wide-eyed at the destruction. She winced with the sound of gunfire, but it was becoming less frequent._

_Looking over at other cars parked on the traffic island, she saw nearly all of them had suffered broken windscreens and headlight covers. Many bore some other form of shrapnel damage: dents, scratches, gouges, cracks. The trees on the traffic island were likewise scarred by flying shrapnel. Amongst the debris on the street were the twisted but recognisable shapes of rifles or submachine guns that had been flung from the truck._

_Some bodies had been thrown away from the truck in the explosion. To her right, she saw Morgan lying unmoving on his back, his right shoulder impaled by a piece of the box compartment from the truck. Blood soaked the entire front of his shirt. Another body could be seen further up, near the Audi. _

_All Mireille could do was stare. In spite of her training, her time spent under the tutelage of a competent assassin, she suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of vulnerability, of defencelessness. _

_She was alone. Alone, and afraid. She was in a situation she had not anticipated and could not control, with no-one to help or guide her. Dumbstruck, she couldn't recall if any of Claude's training scenarios had anything like this. Maybe they did, and she just couldn't remember..._

_She saw a figure lying on the pavement nearby. Mireille found herself drawn to the figure, walking slowly and steadily towards it. It was if her legs were moving of their own accord; she didn't want to go there, fearing what she would see, but still she walked. She tried to turn away, but her head remained fixed, looking at the body on the ground as she approached._

_The dark-clad figure lay on its chest, the jacket and pants torn, limbs askew. Mireille bent over, crouched, and turned the figure over._

_Half of the man's face was soaked in blood, oozing from a massive gash on his right temple. His eyes were closed. Blood trickled from his ears and the corner of his mouth._

_His eyes flew open. The whites of his eyes were red._

_Mireille jumped back, startled. She wanted to turn away, but her head was fixed. His eyes seemed to bore into her. She found herself frozen, fixed to the spot, unable to move._

_He looked at her for a second, and finally said in a strained voice, __**"You did this."**_

* * *

Mireille's eyes flew open as she awoke abruptly. She sat up and turned her head, looking about frantically, her heart pounding, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

Everything was as it was before. She was sleeping on the floor of her apartment in Paris, in a sleeping bag. The furniture and walls were still riddled with bullet holes, and several windows were still shattered. A short distance away was the sound of traffic on the streets. Closer was her own breathing, and that of Kirika, who was lying in the bed.

* * *

The next time Mireille awoke, it was morning. The sky outside was blue. The traffic was louder, consistent with rush hour. She pulled herself up to prepare breakfast.

While the porridge simmered on the stove, Mireille looked around the apartment. Her gaze finally settled on her Walther P99, lying on the pool table in its leather shoulder holster. Frowning to herself, she walked over to it and pulled it out.

Ejecting the magazine, she pulled back the slide. No round in the chamber.

She found herself studying her weapon, turning it over in her hands, looking at it from different angles. Treating it as a tool, she had nearly forgotten what it actually was – a memento. A reminder of her first failure, it was the same make and model as that carried by a man she had unwittingly killed as a result of her impatience. A man who had unwittingly reminded her that her real goal was revenge, and had unintentionally showed her where a path of revenge went.

She had ultimately ignored him, continuing to kill as she searched for her answers. While she took little pleasure in killing, and constantly denied to herself that revenge was a motivation or consideration, she quickly realised that the man had been right: he had pointed out that it _was_ about her and a desire for revenge that she had been denied. Once she realised that, she had never forgiven herself for it, but it was too late; although she still possessed a desire to not harm an innocent, she was fast becoming jaded. This was the path she had chosen for herself, and she would now walk it as best she could.

Kirika twitched, the blanket rustling. Remembering the porridge, Mireille set the pistol on the pool table and rushed back to the kitchen.

At least it was a path she no longer had to walk alone.

* * *

Seated at the edge of the bed, Mireille gently applied the dressing. Beside her, Kirika twitched as the new bandage was pressed to her still-sensitive abdomen. With the new bandage in place, Mireille secured it with the adhesive tape before leaning back, nodding and smiling. Her work finished, Kirika offered a faint smile.

It had been just under a week since that confrontation at the Manor. With Altena and a good number of her followers dead, the faction of the Soldats that had sought to hunt them down and subject them to trials for the purpose of raising a pair of Noir agents was in disarray, if not stopped dead in its tracks. Not that they escaped unscathed; both of them bore various cuts, lacerations, scrapes and bruises, and Kirika suffered a gunshot wound to her abdomen. Fortunately for Kirika, Mireille knew a doctor in Paris who was familiar with her and her line of work, as well as several other assassins and mercenaries based in France, and treated Kirika with no questions asked.

Kirika was recovering nicely; the wound was almost closed, but she still needed something to grip when pulling herself up from a lying or prone position, which she did slowly and painfully. The doctor had recommended bed rest for another two weeks at least, with no strenuous activity for another two weeks after that.

* * *

Thus far, they had been left alone. Fortunately for them, the Soldats' High Council had been disinterested in simply killing them that evening at the Manor; maybe it was a form of gratitude for eliminating Altena.

Mireille sighed before she stood up from the bed, looking out the window. From their travels and findings, the Soldats had a substantial influence on society from the shadows, at least in Europe and possibly in other Western countries as well. It was possible high-ranking military officials, directors of companies, and even politicians were either Soldats themselves or under the influence, overt or otherwise, of Soldats. That sort of influence, if true, made them a significant threat.

Mireille had made no secret of the fact that she considered the Soldats as a whole her enemy. It was entirely possible, therefore, that they were being watched right now; it would, she reflected, be foolish to allow a pair of assassins with knowledge of the Soldats, especially knowledge as deep and detailed as that which they possessed, to go about unchecked.

Given what they knew, Mireille had come to two assumptions regarding their current position with the Soldats: either they were willing to simply observe and not interfere, or they were waiting for an opportunity to quickly and quietly kill them. In the latter case, which she suspected was more likely, it was simply a question of who would make the first move. However, Mireille did not want to endanger Kirika while she was still injured, so any acts of aggression against the Soldats – should she choose to take such action – would have to wait. For now.

In the meantime, however, Kirika needed more bandages. Mireille got up and smiled warmly at Kirika. "It's time for me to go and get those bandages now. I've been putting it off for two days, and we need groceries as well. We've practically run out of milk, amongst other things."

Kirika nodded. "Okay."


End file.
